


Dressed to Tease

by hazelandglasz



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, First Meetings, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-10
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:37:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelandglasz/pseuds/hazelandglasz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles just wanted to unwind for the night - and Lydia wanted him out of their shared apartment anyway - but he might get more than what he bargained for by entering "La Crosse Club" ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressed to Tease

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Sciles Reversebang 2014, with the gorgeous art of kissingcullens as my inspiration
> 
> Title from Man Parrish’s song entitled “Male Stripper”
> 
> Scott’s dancing outfit :   
> pants : http://media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/236x/a1/09/c1/a109c1f696fa2775b511509ec266ddd3.jpg  
> top : http://i01.i.aliimg.com/wsphoto/v0/1737550057/Men-s-fashion-fringe-decoration-personalized-self-cultivation-shirt-free-postage-delivery-quality-brand-font-b.jpg only amovible sleeves
> 
> Music :   
> 1- Indira - Dernière danse - http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rEgRzLXqWUI   
> 2- Daft Punk - Technologic https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UoPplpBPQxQ

** **

* * *

Stiles sips his Long Island Iced Tea, trying to avert his eyes from the stage and trying to find a point of focus in the darkness of the club.

It’s not that the guy actually shaking his butt off - literally - on stage isn’t … aesthetically pleasing, far from it. But it’s just …

Not his cup of tea, so to speak.

The Ke$ha song ends on the guy actually hanging from the pole bar by his ankles alone, and Stiles has to applaud the physical prowess, handing the guy a five dollar note on his way backstage. 

“Come on, fellas, give a round of applause for Danny,” the MC says in the microphone, and Stiles claps a little louder just as “Danny” picks the notes in front of him.

A little dimple appears on the stripper’s face and Stiles smiles back, before looking down, returning his attention to the glass in front of him and feeling his face heat up. **  
**

What is he doing here? **  
**

Not on this Earth, no, this is not the time for a metaphorical soul searching.

What is he doing in this club? He has a thesis to work on, a work to get to tomorrow, a teenage dog to take care off, a roommate who is going to tease him mercilessly when she finds out that he has been to “La Crosse” - even though it was her idea to kick him out of the apartment in the first place, if he recalls the earlier scene correctly, but surely, Lydia didn’t plan on him bailing on a movie night and wandering the streets until he decided to push the door of an establishment of more than dub- **  
**

Stiles slams his glass back on the table a little bit more strongly than he anticipated - oops - earning pointed looks from the other patrons but he tries not to care. **  
**

You know what, he’s going to enjoy his evening at the club, enjoy the dancers and strippers and strip-dancers and performers and whatever name you’re supposed to call them these days if you’re aiming for politically correctness, enjoy the exceedingly gorgeous bodies around him and more importantly, he’s going to let go of his responsibilities, if only for an evening.

Even more importantly, he's not going to let some archaic views of individuals showing off what God gave them stop him from appreciating said gifts. **  
**

The applauses dwindle and in the shadows at the entrance of the stage, Stiles can see a man standing, rolling his neck and shoulders in preparation. He seems to be wearing loose fitting clothes, but Stiles can’t be sure. A slow music starts, and a spotlight turns behind the stripper, enhancing the way his torso tapers down to a small waist and Stiles finds himself searching for his straw with his tongue without looking away. **  
**

“And now, gentlemen and lost ladies, please welcoooome … our Alpha,” the MC says, and Stiles would bet that there is a smile on her face, but his brain is too busy at the moment to think properly.

The stage’s lights are on the newcomer, and by Jor-El and everything else that Stiles holds sacred, is he glad that they do so.

The guy is … pretty. There is no other way to describe his face : pretty, actually prettier than a lot of girls Stiles hit on in the past, and definitely prettier than his last boyfriend.

He has broad shoulders, but not in an athlete jock kind of way. If anything, Stiles would say that he has just enough muscles to hit all of his personal buttons, and seriously, what more could he ask for. He’s definitely more lithe than the previous dancer, and Stiles’ preference probably lies in that quality.

As the lights dim progressively, leaving "Alpha" in a soft glow, Stiles takes in the caramel tone of the man's skin, how soft it looks and a passing, treacherous thought tells him that should he accept to pay the price - and should he have that amount with him, something tells him that he can’t pay for a private dance with his credit card-, he could check said skin texture for himself. **  
**

The soft music continues and a feminine voice starts singing - is it Italian? Spanish? Nah, French. Probably, doesn’t matter - and the guy walks down the stage, keeping his eyes down and Stiles is fascinated by his gait. It’s slow but with a definite purpose, like the man is cautiously approaching the bar that shines ahead of him.

Stiles is suddenly hit by the image of a predator stalking its prey and he leans forward, resting on his elbows as his drink stands forgotten even though his mouth is getting dry. **  
**

The singer's voice gets louder and the stripper starts moving for real. He lifts his arms above his head, his fingers drawing arabesques in the air in a sensual way, while his hips and stomach draw circles around him.

Now he's getting the gaist of it : the stripper is belly dancing and Stiles is going to die on his seat - and he can’t bring himself to truly care.

Still following the rhythm, “Alpha” slowly twirls on the ball of his feet, still approaching the pole, but he’s swiftly and seductively pulling his sleeves from his shirt and Stiles is torn while he faintly listens to the rest of the audience whistling and cat calling at the trick. **  
**

Torn between looking as bulging - but again, not in a “steroid induced” bulging way - muscles slowly appear into the light, tan skin soft looking and bite inviting, and taking notes on how to look incredible when taking one’s clothes off. **  
**

The appeal of watching as the man’s shoulders are freed of the fabric’s confines wins over his personal education, and Stiles focuses on his breathing as the man’s profile is once again offered to his attentive eyes. **  
**

A twist of his arms above his head lets Stiles see two stark dark lines on the man's left biceps. The tattoo is simple, deceptively so : two broad lines acting like a bracelet around the muscle, and Stiles can only admire the way they move with the dancer's decisions, making them seem alive and sentient. **  
**

The sensual music is mesmerizing, and the man following it is too, throwing his head back as he bows his body, the shirt seemingly opening on its own volition and revealing one impressive torso : beautiful pecs, small areola and nipples that are just begging to be touched, and caressed, and flicked, and kissed and --

Wow there.

Stiles has to actually shake his head and take another sip of his drink to stay out of the fantasy his brain has started to build.

The guy is good, he has to admit it - God, he wishes he had enough money to properly thank him for his performance -- and it just started. **  
**

Under the dancing golden and red lights, “Alpha”’s abs look positively delicious, reminding Stiles of his forgotten drink and as he takes a sip to calm his dry throat, Stiles wonders if the taste of those delicate muscles and of that soft looking skin would be the same as the tangy, fruity cocktail in his hand.

All thoughts about his drink fly out of the window when he finds himself with a facefull of soft red fabric. Sputtering to free his eyes, Stiles looks up only to find the stripper smiling at him, even winking at him before grabbing the pole. **  
**

The music slows down right on cue - the romantic part of Stiles insists that the music is following the dance and not the other way around - and the dancer uses the item like it's an extension of his own body, a limb more than an accessory.

Pulling himself up with just his arms, "Alpha" bows his head, casting his face in shadows and letting his musculature catch the light, legs folded against his chest for a moment before he twists his body in a way that makes Stiles whimper into the fabric of the vest and -

Oh, right.

The stripper send his jacket, an item he obviously worked on to fit into his routine, right smack in his face. Not that Stiles is one to read too much in any given situation - he can hear Lydia scoffing in his head - but it has to mean something, right? **  
**

Loud drums pull him out of his musing and remind him that he should focus on the time being and the scene unfolding on stage. Far from the focused and minimalist moves the dancer started with, he's now turning around the bar energetically. His legs seem to turn countertop wise from his torso, the tension only putting his abs and his lateral muscles on display, glistening dark skin catching the lights like amber jewels.

In a blink, the shapeless part of the sarouel pants fall in a heap on the ground, revealing strong, powerful legs and a simple boxer covering the man’s crotch.

Again, Stiles is blinded by an image of those legs wrapped around his waist, or thrown over his shoulders, or pressing down on his chest as the man would fuck his face -- **  
**

What the fuck is going on with his brain? **  
**

Sure, it has been a while since Stiles got laid, but it's not like it's his first dry spell - he is a grown man, not a lust filled animal, for Magneto's sake! **  
**

Shaking his head, Stiles focuses on the show.

Just as abruptly as the dancer had decided to go faster around the pole, the music almost stops, eerie voices chanting as the man lets himself slide down to the ground, one arm holding him against the pole while he uses his free hand to caress up and down his chest.

Mesmerized, Stiles can only follow the path of the broad hand, from one nipple to his navel, to the other nipple and down his opposite side to finally rest on the elastic band of the bowers-like garment he still wears.

The man is kneeling on the floor as the music sounds almost religious, and Stiles can only approve of the sentiment, if that was the goal. 

Because watching that man, that … “Alpha”, touching his chest with his head bowed backwards and his profile sculpted by the throbbing lights? It’s as close to a religious experience as Stiles will ever get.

The singer’s voice is back, and in a swift movement that, were it performed by Stiles, would end up with a rush to the emergency room, the stripper is back on the pole, his upside-down body parallel to the bar, turning to the very last note. **  
**

An electric silence falls over the club for a split second before the room explodes in thunderous applause. The man dismounts from the bar, bowing at the audience and a proud smile on his face. For the first time since he entered the stage, he looks like a regular guy - a regular guy with an exceptional body and balance, sure -, with a crooked smile and dimples and just a tiny unevenness in his jaw, but it only makes him look cuter and it’s not like Stiles needed to have a crush on top of his lusty feelings, thank you very much. **  
**

“A big round of applause for Alpha!” the MC unnecessarily calls, as the money is still flying around the stage, Stiles almost deafened by the volume of the cheers and catcalls.

Gracefully, the dancer picks up the bills and parts of his costume before crouching in front of Stiles.

Yes, that is a black cotton covered crotch, right in his face.

“Excuse me?”

Stiles looks up, mouth agape. The guy is smiling at him, brown eyes sparkling in the lights that are back around them, and he’s holding his hand up. Stiles remains silent, only blinking rapidly as he holds up what remains in his wallet for the man to take, but the man shakes his head with a giggle.

“I need -- I need my jacket back?” the dancer says, his smile taking a softer tone as he points at the jacket clutched in Stiles’ hand.

Oh, this is embarrassing.

Stiles closes his eyes and hands the jacket and the wad of bills. “You - you definitely earn it,” he manages to say without stuttering - small wins, he supposes - before looking at the guy again.

The soft, brown eyes are on him, scrutinizing his face, and the man’s touch is gentle when he picks up his vest and the money Stiles is giving him.

“Thank you very much, Sir,” he says with a wink.

“You’re very welcome, Alpha,” Stiles replies with the hint of a smile starting to stretch his lips.

“Oh, for someone cute like you?” the man says as he stands back up right in front of Stiles - he knows that he can’t be true, but it feels like he’s doing so in slow motion; on purpose -, “You can call me Scott,” he adds, before strutting out of the stage and back in the shadows. **  
**

There might be a new dancer that comes on stage, but for the life of him, Stiles couldn’t say, his brain entirely focused on the exchange he just had.

Did he?

Yeah, it happened, he’s sure of it.

Rushing to get out of his plush seat, Stiles nearly falls on his face but he manages to keep a semblant of dignity as he reaches the DJ’s booth.

The Japanese girl handling the vinyls looks up at him at the set runs smoothly. "May I help you?" she asks, and there is definitely mirth in her dark eyes. 

"I was wondering who I need to talk to secure a more ... Private show," Stiles says, his inner Lydia smacking him on the head for the robotic, unemotional, unStilesy really, vocabulary he's using.

The girl raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at him, and her smile only turns feral. “And which one of our fine artists would you like to get more acquainted with?” she asks sweetly - too sweetly.

Stiles should know, Lydia and Erica are the queens of torture inducing sweetness.

“Alpha?” he says, more of a question than the affirmation he was aiming for, but it doesn’t really matter, because her face immediately closes off.

“Alpha doesn’t do private dance.” 

Her voice accepts no compromise, no plea or no more pushing, but Stiles has never been good at listening to the subtext.

“I can pay, if that’s the problem,” he says, trying for his best puppy eyes but if anything, it only makes the girl look even more homicidal.

“It’s not a matter of money,  Sir ,” she says between gritted teeth, her eyes darting from Stiles to the stage to make sure that the set is still going, “Alpha. Doesn’t. Do. Private. End of story.” **  
**

Now, Stiles may not be good at reading subtext, but he’s good at assessing when his counterpart is about to get violent - saved him from a couple of chancy situations.

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” he replies, holding up his hands. “Sorry.”

Her jaw seems to unclench and she nods in acknowledgment before returning her attention to the turntables - and Stiles can recognize a dismissal when he’s facing one.

Without another word, he walks out of the club, taking a deep breath on the sidewalk before going back home, his dreams filled with images of tantalizing skin and muscles dancing under it. **  
**

\--------- **  
**

“You did what?”

Kira winces over her bowl of cereals, but Scott doesn’t feel like treating her like a fragile little thing that she is not in any shape or form.

“I send him away,” Kira repeats, milk dribbling down her chin and Scott reaches out to wipe it away. “He was being pushy, and treating you like a piece of meat.” She pauses before frowning at Scott. “You should be thankful, bro!”

“Thankful?” Scott repeats, clearly shocked by the suggestion. “I threw my vest at the guy, Kir’, I liked him!” he exclaims. 

“You don’t do private dances,” Kira simply replies, her eyes worried as she looks at him. “You do your sets, you can work at the bar pouring cocktails on the day before an audition, but you don’t do private dances.”

Scott huffs a sigh and lets himself plop in a chair next to his best friend and roommate - and colleague, too.

“I want to date,” he whines just a little bit. “I wanted  him to ask me on a date,” he adds and Kira pets his head.

“Why don’t you ask him on a date?” she asks, going back to her loud and obnoxious chewing.

Scott rolls his eyes so hard he can feel a migraine keeping up and he scoffs at her as he pours himself a bowl of whatever she’s having. “How? When? Where?”

“So many questions, young padawan,” she whispers, and Scott has no qualms about kicking her feet under the table.

“Seriously though,” he continues, “thanks to you, he’s never going to come back to La Crosse.”

Kira lets out a boisterous laugh at that. “Oh, he’ll come back. Trust me on this, I saw him watching you,” she adds, nudging Scott’s knee. “He’ll come back.”

Scott beams at her, wanting to believe her, wanting to believe that the mystery man with the cute nose and the stunning amber eyes and the beauty marks  will come back to see him.  **  
**

When he meets him again, Scott will not play hide and seek, and he will get his wit together to ask him out himself.

In the meantime, though, he’s going to finish his breakfast, do his push-ups and hit the gym for his daily training routine.

\--

Being a dancer is not just a hobby for Scott : it’s a sport for him, it’s who he is.

Since he sees himself as an athlete, he takes good care of his one and only tool.

He has a series of dance warm-ups he does before every show, of course, but more importantly, he makes sure that all the muscles in his body are used and enhanced every day.

Today is a cardio day, though - Scott hates Cardio days, he ends up sweaty and aching everywhere.

But Cardio days are club-free days, so at least he’ll be able to come home and soak peacefully in the bath when he’s done.

First, the treadmill, just to get his blood pumping. Then the elliptical and the rowing machine, to make sure that his shoulders and general upper body are strong enough.

Twenty minutes on the bike, just to give himself a break - and to catch up with the telenovela the gym always shows on Wednesdays - before returning to the treadmill, to give a nice sense of closure to his whole routine.

The last exercise is a whole lot faster and really harder all-together than his first run with the machine, but it leaves him pumping endorphins like it’s oxygen, and he’s euphoric for the rest of the day. **  
**

But all of his plans fall down the drain when he arrives at his usual club and sees Allison talking with Chef Hale.

“Hey, Alli,” Scott says in greetings to the young woman who is his second best friend and owns and rules the three “Aim For Fitness” gyms in the city. “What’s going on?”

Allison says goodbye to the captain of the firemen before letting him back inside the gym and turning to Scott. “We got flooded,” she says with a sigh, “from the basement up.”

“Oh no,” Scott immediately replies, reaching to touch her shoulder in support. “Is everything going to be alright?”

“Oh, as soon as Derek and his team are done with evacuating the water, I’ll clean everything with Isaac and Jackson,” Allison replies, a tired smile stretching her lips and making her dimples appear. “The insurance will cover everything, and we will be back and running in two weeks, three tops.” **  
**

Something of his disappointment must show on his face - how is he going to work his cardio without “his” gym in the meantime? - because Allison’s eyes widen and she reaches for his shoulders.

“Hey, it’s alright,” she says, pressing down his shoulders to get herself understood, “the AFF on Plank Street is opened and running - I’ll give them a call while you’re on your way, and you’ll have an access to all the equipment, and let me offer you a free access to the hot tubs? For your trouble?” she tells him, and before Scott can refuse or say that she doesn’t have to do that, she covers his mouth with her hand. “Take the gift, Scotty.” **  
**

“Thank you Allison,” Scott replies, voice muffled by her palm, and she screeches at the wet sensation, smacking him on the bicep.

“Go, you miscreant,” she says, a giggle making her voice shake as she forcefully makes him turn and go with a pat on his ass.

Scott wiggles his fingers at her over his shoulder on his way to the subway station.

 

\--- **  
**

“I’ll be by the hot tubs if you need me.”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty - rough night?”

“... You can say that. Thanks, Erica.”

“Don’t fall asleep, sugar!”

 

\--- **  
**

“ Buy it, use it, break it, fix it,

Trash it, change it, mail - upgrade it,

Charge it, point it, zoom it, press it,

Snap it, work it, quick - erase … ”

To the hypnotic rhythm of Daft Punk early hit, Scott does his final five minutes of fast running on the treadmill before the blessed five minutes of cool down.

The speed of his run helps him organize his thoughts, as loathing as he finds the exercise, and his mind goes back to his performance of the previous evening.

As a dancer, especially on a stage as small as the one at La Crosse - definitely not Carnegie Hall - Scott likes to make contact with members of the audience, if only because it guarantees a higher rate of tips.

But the thing that happened last night? It has never happened before.

 

Never before has Scott met a patron’s eyes and wanted to categorize alphabetically all the nuances in those eyes - and that was in the club’s passing lights - or count the freckles and beauty marks on his face and trailing down his jaw. With his lips and tongue, with any luck.

Never before has he seen someone looking at him the way “Long Island Ice Tea” looked at him, with reverence and admiration for his skill overpowering based-level lust.

Never before has he wished that Kira wasn’t so overprotective of him and his so-called virtue. Seriously, he loves the girl to pieces - otherwise they wouldn’t be roommate - but sometimes she is worst than his own mother. **  
**

Scott slams the button to start slowing down with a huff. What if he never comes back, in spite of her certainty that he will? If she blew his first opportunity to date in months, he’s …

Who is he kidding, he’s not going to do anything except subject her to weeks and weeks of puppy eyes and passive-aggressive behavior.

Like leave her katanas half-opened or replace her calligraphy ink with invisible ink. **  
**

“ Touch it, bring it, pay it, watch it,

Turn it, leave it, start - format it  …”

As the song ends, the treadmill comes to an halt and Scott smiles proudly at the synchronicity of it all. **  
**

The young blonde woman who had welcomed him on arrival approaches the machine. “Was your training satisfactory?” she asks, professionally nice about it and Scott smiles at her, plucking his towel from the handle of the treadmill.

“You arrange the machines differently than Allison,” he admits with a shrug, “so it was an adjustment, but everything is just peachy, thanks … Erica!” he tells her, checking her name tag just to be nice.

Erica beams at him in answer, her smile really toothy now that he thinks about it, before offering him a bottle of water at room temperature and he appreciates it, downing half of the bottle.

First time he went to the gym, Jackson gave him an icy cold bottle after his workout  and Scott felt like he was about to die from the temperature shock.

Obviously, Erica here is a lot more sensitive and aware of sports regulation than Jackson.

Then again, she just might be less of an asshole than Jackson.

 

“Allison said that you can access the hot tubs,” Erica says, and just as she mentions it, Scott feels like he could use a good soaking in a hot bath with jets massaging his muscles - without the delay of going back home. “Do you also want a massage from our resident therapist? He’s still a student, but he shows great promise,” she offers, cocking her head to the side as she waits for his answer.

He has never needed a massage after a workout, but his set last night was more straining on his shoulders than he assumed - he estimates that he needs to shorten the lapse of time he spends holding himself up with his arms twisted around the bar, by approximately three, three and a half seconds - and it might get the residual tension out of him.

“You think I need it?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the machine.

 

Erica seems to truly ponder her answer before replying, and he appreciates it. “I think that while you may not need it, since your workout doesn’t classify as intense, but you do seem to be an athlete, and therapeutic massage might help you in the long term,” she replies carefully and he nods along.

“I’m a dancer,” he clarifies and she snaps her fingers as if it answers a question she had in mind.

“Ah,” she simply says before looking at him with a calculating look, her eyes drifting from him to the different machines he used and back to him, pointing her finger at him. “Cardio day?” she guesses and he beams at her.

“I’m impressed,” he says, still smiling, and she preens more than a little at that. “Ok, I’ll try it then!”

“Awesome!” Erica claps her hand happily. “Hit the showers and the hot tubs beforehand - I trust you have a swimsuit or a change of underwear ?” she asks with raised eyebrows and Scott nods emphatically. “Good - we provide disposable swimwears for the hot tub, but put your underwear on before going to our therapist’s office; don’t want him to faint on the floor!” she adds with a snort that speaks of a familiarity Scott is more than used to.

“Thank you very much,” he thanks her before taking his leave and she shrugs in answer.

“Thank me after the massage!”

\--

The shower feels amazing, and just as he assumed, the jets in the hot tubs work wonders on his whole sore body. That being said, his shoulders and his left arm are still bugging him - not exactly hurting, but there is a definite ache everytime he rolls his shoulders.

Pulling out of the tub, Scott dries himself and changes into his boxer briefs before walking towards the only white door in the room, assuming it leads to the masseur’s office. **  
**

“Excuse me,” he says, knocking on the door at the same time that he opens it, “Erica told me to come and s-”

The words get lodged into his throat as he looks at the therapist.

Who has a very distinctive pattern of moles on his face and jaw that Scott can look at to his heart’s content as the man finishes typing something on his computer, glasses on his nose and a white coat over a graphic t-shirt (is that Spiderman? With Deadpool? Dancing the tango?).

“You were sayingooooooh my God,” the man starts replying, an easy smile on his face at first, until he sees Scott standing in the doorway.

Scott’s eyes follow the path of the blush that spreads from the back of the man’s neck to his cheeks and collarbones.

They both are silent, looking at the other with wide eyes - Scott can’t talk for the therapist, but he’s busy cursing every deity he knows and all the ones he doesn’t (for good measure) for that mean, mean trick played on him.

Sure, he wanted to see the man again to have a shot at asking him for a date, but not that soon.

It’s too soon.

Scott needs time to rehearse his speech, to make it all smooth and -- well, less awkward anyway. Long story short, he is not ready to see the man he wanted to … See again, wow he’s being stupid. **  
**

“Hi,” he says softly, with a wave that he wants to stop before he’s even done with it and the man smiles hesitantly.

“Hey.”

“So you’re a sports therapist?” Scott asks, fully entering the office and sitting on the other side of the desk.

“Apprentice,” the man corrects with a twitch of his smile. 

“Should I call you ‘doctor’ or …?” Scott asks, crossing his legs and the man flails a little as he sits up to offer up his hand.

“Stiles will do - Stiles Stilinski,” he says as they shake hands for just a beat too long to be entirely socially acceptable. **  
**

Stiles clears his throat as he sits back in his chair. “Let’s just focus on why you are here - for now,” he adds with raised eyebrows that somehow convey how much he means it. “We’ll have time to talk about … um, other. Things. Later?”

Scott shrugs good-naturedly - if there is the possibility to actually talk about other “things” that lead to Stiles blushing again like that, he’s in - before unfolding his legs to scoots his chair forward.

“I have this ache in my back and arm,” he starts saying, and Stiles stands up - jeepers the man is tall, taller than Scott, not towering over him like Danny but still, in a lanky, lithe way -, gesturing for Scott to stands up to. Scott follows the silent command and turns his back to the man, trying to gesture where it hurts. “Here, and uh, wait, here,” he says, touching what he can of his shoulder blade before pointing to the knot of his shoulder.

Stiles stands behind him, and Scott hears the snap of gloves being put on. “I will not have them on for the massage if it makes you uncomfortable,” Stiles says, voice soft and patient - Scott instinctively knows that this is his “professional” voice - as he starts pressing around the shoulder blade. “Tell me when it starts hurting, on a scale from one, I just knocked my little toe against the bedpost, to ten, I tried to open the locked door with my shoulder.”

He presses gently around the bone and muscles, and just as he reaches a spot just above the rise of the bone under Scott’s skin, Scott lets out a little whimper.

“There - it’s like a two?”

Stiles hums and keeps pressing, forming a line on Scott’s shoulder from that point to the shoulder.

Just above the fold of Scott’s armpit, he pauses at Scott’s gasp. “Let me guess, six or seven?”

Scott lets out a noise between a whine and a deprecating chuckle. “Will you think I’m a total wuss if I say eight and a half?”

Stiles lets out a laugh, his hot breath brushing against the skin of Scott’s back. “Dude, after what I saw you doing yesterday, I doubt there is anything that could make me think of you as a total wuss,” he replies, and when Scott looks at him over his shoulder, there is a light blush on the high of his cheeks as the therapist-to-be bites his lower lip and shakes his head. **  
**

“Anyway,” he exclaims, and Scott turns his gaze back to the wall in front of him, fighting the grin that threatens to pop out on his face, “now that I have a better idea of the kind of issue you’re having, we’ll start the massage. Do you have any allergies or contraindications?”

Scott turns to face him with a puzzled look on his face. “Huh, not that I know of - why ?”

Stiles is already standing by the table, taking off his gloves and he uses them to point at a shelf covered in little bottles. “For the product I’ll be using - I tend to favor this little one,” he continues, pulling out a glass bottle with a crooked label. “It’s a blend of essential oils of rosemary, lavender, peppermint and lemongrass, and it does wonders to help refill the batteries.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Scott says as he hopes on the table and lies down, folding his arms under his head to pillow it, and he can’t bet on it, but he’s almost sure that Stiles let out a little noise pretty close to a whimper before he clears his throat. **  
**

“For now, just leave your arms hang on the side of the bed - the table!” Stiles says, gently unfolding his arms and offering him a folded towel to rest on. “I meant the table.”

Scott chuckles and closes his eyes. “I know what you meant - do you mind telling me what you’re doing while you do it?”

“Not at all!” Stiles explains, and by the sound of it, he’s pouring some of the oil in his hands. “For now, I’m going to simply stroke the aching area, with my palm, and I will gradually increase the pressure, to lead to phase 2.”

Scott listens to the man’s voice, and relaxes into his touch. It doesn’t feel like a massage, it’s more like a caress - the intimacy of it is not lost on him, and he can’t really help but wonder about it aloud.

Stiles lets out an amused huff, his hand still rubbing circles on the whole shoulder / shoulder blade area. “Sometimes people think that the gym is actually employing me as an escort, but they change their minds when I move on to the next phases.”

“How many phases?”

“For you?” Stiles asks, and Scott has a vivid flashback of him saying those words or a close variation of it anyway to Stiles the previous night. “Four phases should get you rid of that ache.”

“Goodie.”

“You have no idea, man.” **  
**

Phase 1 was nice and relaxing.

Phase 2 is a little bit more demanding on Scott, since Stiles has apparently decided to knead him like a piece of bread dough, and while the man’s touch is still gentle, he seems to have an aim for painful spots that is scarily accurate.

Thankfully, phase 2 doesn’t last long, and for a minute or two, Stiles lets Scott alone, pressing different points down his back.

Then Stiles comes to stand in front of Scott’s face, his crotch right in his line of sight and Scott closes his eyes as hard as he can.

“Now I’m going to really attack the root of the problem,” Stiles says, sounding weirdly apologetic and Scott tenses just a little bit.

Just a little. Not that much. 

“Which is?” he asks between gritted teeth because he has always been too curious for his own good, and Stiles rubs his hands, warming up the oil before answering.

“You seem to have just pinched one tendon in the knot of the shoulder,” he explains, one hand coming to rest on the knot of the shoulder. “So all I need to do is to apply pressure on the rest of the muscular apparel around the scapula - the shoulder blade,” he explains when Scott makes an interrogative noise, “and rotate the shoulder to free the tendon.”

“Sounds nice,” Scott mumbles, burying his face in the towel and relaxing into Stiles’ touch.

 

Stiles presses his thumb on the shoulder blade - his touch is gentle but firm, and Scott lets his mind drift to another situation where Stiles would be able to be gentle but firm -- another muscle is involved altogether, and even lying face down, Scott can feel himself getting progressively harder and harder and he wiggles a little.

“Please don’t move while I’m doing my thing,” Stiles instructs, voice light and barely containing a laugh, Scott can tell. “I know it can be hard to remain still but it could have an impact on the whole articulation, and trust me, man, you don’t want that.”

“Sorry,” Scott mumbles, trying to bring foul images to mind to cool himself down, and he somehow manages to get his cock to stop twitching - small victories and all that jazz - when Stiles rotates his shoulder. Like a snapping elastic, the ache seems to vanish from his shoulder and Scott can’t contain the sigh of relief.

Except that it definitely sounds like a moan, and that is definitely Stiles freezing mid-rub and clearing his throat. **  
**

“Ah, cool, I -- I take it this feels better?” Stiles asks, now returning to Phase 1, slowly and gently rubbing circles over the shoulder blade.

“You have no idea,” Scott says, taking deep breath in time with Stiles’ circular touches to keep himself in check.

“I’m glad I could help,” Stiles replies, falling silent as he proceeds to rub the right shoulder too - “for good measure - wouldn’t want one feeling less loved, now would we” - and Scott can feel himself falling asleep right here on the table, with that incredible touch lulling him into a nap and his erection guaranteeing the most agreeable of dreams.

“Is there anything else that hurts ?” Stiles asks and Scott has to blink himself back into awareness. **  
**

Truth be told, nothing aches or hurts : after the workout, the hot tub and the massage, he feels like he could go to the club right now and perform two sets in a row.

But even though it paints a very porny, in a cliché kind of way, picture in his mind, there is an opening for him right there. **  
**

If he dares.

 

A voice, one that sounds remarkably like Kira’s, tells him not to be a chicken shit, and he turns his head to look at the other man.

"My gluts feel a bit sore," he says, wincing for good measure, to sell the act, but there is a shadow in Stiles' eyes that tells Scott the man is not entirely convinced. "It doesn't hurt per se," he continues, bending his arm to rest his head in the palm of his hand, "but i'm sure your ... Expert, magical touch will get me rid of that itch."

Scott is fully aware that when he lies down like this, his back is bowed just enough to accentuate the dip of the small of his back and highlight the curve of his ass, and he doesn't miss the way Stiles' eyes follow that curve before returning to look at him. **  
**

"An itch."

"Yep."

"In your gluteus maximus."

"Indeedus."

"That you want me to take care of." **  
**

Stiles' tone is suspicious at best, defensive at worst, and even as he nods and smiles at the man, Scott wonders if he misread the situation or if he has lost his flirting skills.

You never had any skills , Mental Kira teases and he mentally shoos her away.

Stiles taps his fingers next to Scott's elbow, seemingly at war with himself before he bends forward, bringing their faces next to each other. 

"You wouldn't make a joke like that, would you, Alpha?" He asks, voice low and dangerously humorless.

"What? No !" Scott exclaims, "first of all, man,I would never do that, just so you know," he points out, "and second, that was just my pathetic attempt at getting in your pants - I'll just go now," he hurriedly adds, trying to sit up, but before he can fully proceed to do so and leap off the table, Stiles puts his hand on the small of his back. 

"Not pathetic - at all," Stiles says, his eyes softening into the color of a Toffee, a shy smile now dancing on his lips. 

"But?" Scott supplies, unable to look away and resisting the urge to purr as Stiles rubs circles on his back, the tip of his fingers barely brushing the hem of Scott's briefs. 

Stiles' eyes flicker to scott's butt, and Scott has to bite his lower lip to keep from making a sound - and to keep himself from wiggling said appendage. 

Maybe he's not that hopeless.

" But ," Stiles answers, regret etched on his face and in his downwards looking eyebrows, "as much as I want to, I can't just start kneading your ass on my workplace."

The words send a jolt of electricity down Scott's body, the picture they paint too alluring for his own good. **  
**

A moment of silence stretches between them before Scott decides to clear his throat. "I don't work toni-", he starts, only for Stiles to jump on the occasion.

"Dinner and movie?" He rushes to say, a hopeful smile on his face. “There is a Star Wars marathon on Archer, maybe we --”

“I’ve never seen Star Wars,” Scott admits sheepishly, and for two solid seconds, Stiles is frozen into place before he shrugs. 

“Even better !” he exclaims before taking a step away from the table, letting Scott enough room to sit up.

“I have another idea,” Scott says slowly, as the idea forms in his mind, stretching his smile into a smirk.

Stiles cocks one eyebrow and waits for him to make himself clear.

“What about we go for a meal at the diner on Wrigley,” he says, sliding of the table to come closer to the other man, sliding his hands up the lapels of the white coat, “and then we go dancing?”

“Dancing?”

“Dancing.”

Stiles lets out a snort. “Trust me, you don’t want to take me dancing - not on a first date anyway.”

“You’ve seen me dancing,” Scott says, going for his best puppy eyes and flirty pout.

“Not fair,” Stiles says, his blush back at full force. “You dance like a God - I dance like I’m having a stroke”.

Scott can feel his face heating up at the compliment, and then Stiles finally - finally in Scott's mind - puts his broad, magical hands on Scott's waist and hip. "But then again," he says thoughtfully, "I am in a mood for a little religion."

"As in?"

"As in worshipping the god that you are, even if I look ridiculous doing it," Stiles replies, his smile turning hesitant.

Scott looks at that man, a man he barely knows but wants to know in every possible meaning of the word, and his heart goes to him. "I could teach you some of my techniques," he tells Stiles who opens wide eyes, "or consider another form of worship."

If he thought Stiles' eyes were wide before, Scott needs another word to describe them now, as they slowly darken.

Stiles clears his throat. "All in due time, young padawan," he says with a slightly choked voice. "All in due time."

"Fine," Scott replies, taking a step back and picking a pen from the desk to scribble his phone number on a piece of paper. "Don't keep me waiting, Doc," he says as he leaves, in a final use of what is left of his bravado. **  
**

On his way home, his phone vibrates in his pocket, and Scott doesn't need to look to know who it is from, a smile blossoming on his face. 

 

The end ...?


End file.
